HERE tread aside, where the descending brook
Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream,
And all the summer long, on silver feet,
Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out
A mellow murmur on the quiet air.
Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade
Set, like a nest amid embowering trees,
Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring,
Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil,
Lived, in my early days, an humble pair,
A mother and her daughter. She, the dame,
Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten.
Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame,
And bow'd with time and toil; the lines of care
At shut of day
Were deep upon her brow.
I've met her by the skirt of this old wood,
Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself,
Haply, the history of her better days.
I knew that history once, from youth to age:-
It was a sad one; he who wedded her
Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death
Had fallen among her children and her friends.
One solace for her age remained,-a fair
And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes,
Her sweet songs
And cheeks like summer roses.
Rang like the thrasher's warble in these woods,
And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve,
Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts
Of the deep forest. Oft she gather'd flowers
In lone and desolate places, where the foot
Of other wanderers but seldom trod.
Once, in my boyhood, when my truant steps
Had led me forth among the pleasant hills,
I met her in a shaded path, that winds
Far through the spreading groves.
The shadow of the hills stretch'd o'er the vale,
And the still waters of the river lay
Black in the early twilight. As we met,
She stoop'd and press'd her friendly lips to mine,
And, though I then was but a simple child,
Who ne'er had dream'd of love, nor knew its power,
I wonder'd at her beauty. Soon a sound
Of thunder, muttering low, along the west,
Foretold a coming storm; my homeward path
Lay through the woods, tangled with undergrowth.
A timid urchin then, I fear'd to go,
Which she observing, kindly led the way,
And left me when my dwelling was in sight.
I hasten'd on; but, ere I reach'd the gate,
The rain fell fast, and the drench'd fields around
Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash.
But where was now ELIZA! When the morn
Blush'd on the summer hills, they found her dead,
Beneath an oak, rent by the thunderbolt.
Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft
Had pierced hersnow-white brow. And here she lies,
Where the green hill slopes toward the southern sky.
"Tis thirty summers since they laid her here;
The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone;
Her kindred all are perish'd from the earth,
And this rude stone, that simply bears her name,
Is mouldering fast; and soon this quiet spot,
Held sacred now, will be like common ground.
Fit place is this for so much loveliness
It is a hallow'd shrine,
To find its rest.
Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring
Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave;
The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time,
Sigh to the winds; the robin takes his perch
Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate;
The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June,
And hangs above her in the winter days
Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near;
The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he
Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white,
Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found,
Around the head-stone carefully entwined,
Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom.
For two years past I've miss'd them; doubtless one
Who held this dust most precious, placed them there,
And, sorrowing in secret many a year,
At last hath left the earth to be with her.
THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale,
With sloping hills and waving woods around,
Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale
Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground;
And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers,
And a bright verdure, born of gentler showers.
"T was there my young existence was begun,
My earliest sports were on its flowery green,
And often, when my schoolboy task was done,
I climb'd its hills to view the pleasant scene,
And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray
Shone on the height, the sweetest of the day.
There, when that hour of mellow light was come,
And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain,
I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home,
In the lone path that winds across the plain,
To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labours of the day.
And when the woods put on their autumn glow,
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathering in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze,
I wander'd till the starlight on the stream
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.
Ah! happy days, too happy to return,
Fled on the wings of youth's departed years,
A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,
The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears;
Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay,
A twilight of the brightness pass'd away.
My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still,
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place, and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure, and autumnal dyes;
The present brings its storms; but, while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.
THAT Soft autumnal time
Is come, that sheds, upon the naked scene,
Charms only known in this our northern climeBright seasons, far between.
The woodland foliage now
Is gather'd by the wild November blast;
E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar's bough Are fallen, to the last.
The mighty vines, that round
The forest trunks their slender branches bind, Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground, Swing naked in the wind.
Some living green remains
By the clear brook that shines along the lawn;
But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains,
And the bright flowers are gone.
But these, these are thy charms--
Mild airs and temper'd light upon the lea;
And the year holds no time within its arms
That doth resemble thee.
The sunny noon is thine,
Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night;
And hues that in the flush'd horizon shine
At eve and early light.
The year's last, loveliest smile,
Thou comest to fill with hope the human heart, And strengthen it to bear the storms a while, Till winter days depart.
O'er the wide plains, that lie
A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread,
And nightly on the dark walls of the sky
A ruddy brightness shed.
Far in a shelter'd nook
I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, A lonely aster, trembling by a brook,
At the quiet noontides' hour:
And something told my mind, That, should old age to childhood call me back, Some sunny days and flowers I still might find Along life's weary track.
THE BLIND RESTORED TO SIGHT.
"And I went and washed, and I received sight.”— JOHN ix. 11.
WHEN the great Master spoke,
He touch'd his wither'd eyes,
And at one gleam upon him broke
The glad earth and the skies.
And he saw the city's walls,
And kings' and prophets' tomb,
And mighty arches, and vaulted halls,
And the temple's lofty dome.
He look'd on the river's flood,
And the flash of mountain rills, And the gentle wave of the palms that stood Upon Judea's hills.
He saw on heights and plains
Creatures of every race:
But a mighty thrill ran through his veins
When he met the human face;
And his virgin sight beheld
The ruddy glow of even,
And the thousand shining orbs that fill'd
The azure depths of heaven.
And woman's voice before
Had cheer'd his gloomy night, But to see the angel form she wore Made deeper the delight.
And his heart, at daylight's close,
For the bright world where he trod, And when the yellow morning rose, Gave speechless thanks to Gon.
THERE is a magic in the moon's mild ray,— What time she softly climbs the evening sky, And sitteth with the silent stars on high,That charms the pang of earth-born grief away. I raise my eye to the blue depths above,
And worship Him whose power, pervading space, Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace, Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love. Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high,
I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has mark'd my Sweetly she shines upon my sober'd eye. [brow, O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, Shine on my eve of life-shine soft, and long abide.
'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far
To a wild hill, that overlooks a land
Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star
Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand
The streamlet slides with mellow tones away;
The west is crimson with retiring day;
And the north gleams with its own native light.
Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie,
And through green banks the river wanders by, And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright: Bright-but of fading brightness!-soon is past
That dream-like glory of the painted wood; And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast,
The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
PROFESSOR LONGFELLOW was born in the city of Portland, on the twenty-seventh day of February, 1807. He entered Bowdoin College in his fourteenth year, and took his bachelor's degree at that seminary in 1825. In the following spring he went to Europe, visited France, Spain, Italy, and Germany; studied at Gottingen; and, passing through England on his return, reached home in the summer of 1829. He was soon after appointed Professor of Modern Languages in Bowdoin College, and in 1831 was married. In 1835 he resigned his professorship, and went a second time to Europe, to study the languages and literature of the northern nations. He passed the summer in Denmark and Sweden; the autumn and winter in Germany-losing in that period his wife, who died suddenly at Heidelberg-and the following spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzerland. He returned to the United States in October, 1836, and immediately afterward entered upon his duties as Professor of the French and Spanish Languages in Harvard College, at Cambridge.
The earliest of LONGFELLOW's metrical compositions were written while he was an undergraduate at Brunswick, for "The United States Literary Gazette;" and from that period he has been known as a poet, and his effusions, improving as each year added to his scholarship and taste, have been extensively read and admired. While a professor in the college in which he was educated, he wrote several of the most elegant and judicious papers that have appeared in the "North American Review;" made his translation of Coplas de Manrique; and published "Outre Mer, a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea." In 1839 appeared his "Hyperion," one of the most beautiful prose compositions in our language; in 1840 the first collection of his poems, under the title of "Voices of the Night;" and in the beginning of the present year his "Ballads and Other Poems," embracing among other pieces "The Skeleton in Armour," a ballad in the style of the old Norse poetry, and "The Children of the Lord's Supper," translated from the Swedish of ESAIAS TEGNÉR, a venerable bishop of the Lutheran church, and the most illustrious poet of northern Europe. The genius of TEGNER had already been made known in this country by a learned and elaborate criticism, illustrated by translated passages of great beauty, of his "Frithiof's Saga," contributed by LONGFELLOW to the "North American Review," soon after he returned from his second visit to Europe. "The Children of the Lord's Supper" is little less celebrated than the author's great epic, and the English version is an exact reproduction of it, in form and in spirit. No translations from the continental languages into the English surpass those of LONGFELLOW, and it is questionable whether some of his versions from
the Spanish, German, and Swedish, have been
equalled. The rendition of "The Children of the
Lord's Supper" was the most difficult task he
could have undertaken, as spondaic words, so ne-
cessary in the construction of hexameters, and so
common in the Greek, Latin, and Swedish, are so
rare in the English language.
"The Skeleton in Armour" is the longest and
most unique of LONGFELLOW's original poems.
The Copenhagen antiquaries attribute the erec-
tion of a round tower at Newport, in Rhode
Island, to the Scandinavians of the twelfth cen-
tury. A few years ago a skeleton in complete
armour was exhumed in the vicinity of the tower.
These facts are the groundwork of the story. In
the first stanzas the poet addresses the skeleton:
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour dress'd,
Comest to daunt nie!
Wrapp'd not in Eastern balms,-
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretch'd as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seem'd to rise,
As when the northern skies
Gleam in December!
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of wo
From the heart's chamber:
"Far in the northern land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the ger-falcon ;
And, with my skates fast bound,
Skimm'd the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor, whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on."
And, proceeding with his "strange, eventful his
tory," the spectre Norseman tells how he wooed
a maiden, the daughter of a stern old prince, who
laughs at his suit-
And, as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
The maiden flies with the Viking, however, and
after long weeks of tempest at sea, they reach the
new continent, where the hero builds
-the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
LONGFELLOW's works are eminently picturesque, and are distinguished for nicety of epithet, and elaborate, scholarly finish. He has feeling, a rich imagination, and a cultivated taste. He is one of the very small number of American poets who have "written for posterity."
A PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way'; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and Gon o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.
THE night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.
Is it the tender star of love?
The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above
A hero's armour gleams.
And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.
O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.
Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars:
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquer'd will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possess'd.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.
O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
THE rising moon has hid the stars,
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if DIANA, in her dreams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke ENDYMION with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dream'd not of her love.
Like DIAN's kiss, unask'd, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassion'd gaze.
It comes the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity-
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.
O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!
O, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
WHEN the hours of day are number'd,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul that slumber'd
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour-wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;
He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,-
By the road-side fell and perish'd,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,—
Folded their pale hands so meekly,-
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saintlike,
Looking downward from the skies.
Utter'd not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
O, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
THE BELEAGURED CITY.
I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleagured the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flow'd between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasp'd the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaim'd the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamp'd beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
THE sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear
The blue-bird prophesying Spring.
So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where, waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new-the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves-
There are no birds in last year's nest.
All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight,
And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night.
Maiden! that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth-it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For, O! it is not always May!
Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest,
For Time will teach thee soon the truth-
There are no birds in last year's nest.
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